


Neither Fish nor Foul nor Fool Complete

by glassessay



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, ESPECIALLY not Neptune, Francis is maybe a little bit of an idiot in this one, Gen, Pre-Relationship, given the AU i feel it's important to say:, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:17:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassessay/pseuds/glassessay
Summary: It isn’t that Francis hates tourneys or feasts or even weddings; it’s that he hates the snide glances and pointed whispers and endless plotting of Westerosi society—and all the lords and ladies who think it’s the only important thing in the world.Ser James of the Riverlands is, it seems, no different from the rest.





	Neither Fish nor Foul nor Fool Complete

**Author's Note:**

> I had like, a prophetic fever dream when [this thread](https://glass-es-say.tumblr.com/post/185137951127/ok-super-sorry-to-drop-in-your-inbox-like-this) was happening and it took me two weeks to make something of it but I did finish, so. Here it is!

 

It’s not that Francis doesn’t _like_ tourneys, it’s just—

Actually, no. He _doesn’t_ like tourneys. He thinks they’re a waste of time and resources whose only purpose is to boost the already over-inflated egos of the lords and knights of Westeros. So it’s not _just_ that he doesn’t like tourneys.

It’s that he doesn’t like tourneys, he’s not on his ship—he’s not even in the North—and his dog is missing.

He _hates_ tourneys.

“I’m sure he can’t be far, milord.” Francis turns to face his squire and raises an unconvinced brow. Jopson coughs. “I’ll just go looking for him, then.”

Francis sighs. “Take the east, Thomas. I’ll go west.”

The great bustle of tourney preparation clamors around him. Francis ducks around the knights and other lords, averting the gazes of most while focusing roughly around their knees, hoping to catch a glimpse of black fur. Someone, somewhere, is playing music—until a man laughs loudly and yells something he cannot make out, and the melody cuts out.

Francis passes by the jousting field, bedecked in silver and purple, and keeps going. There is a rippling sea of tents spread out before him, all in service of some lord or knight or another that will expect to be supplied with food and wine and entertainment.

It is, Francis thinks, far too much expense for something of little real matter. His own house wouldn’t bother putting on something of this scale for a handful of minor lords and their entourages. House Mallister might have the benefit of port-based income, but all Francis can see as he looks around is how many people each fluttering decoration could have fed.

And for what, really? Two weeks of machismo and bravado and green-boy knights and lordlings pretending they're competent fighters. Francis would rather be almost anywhere.

But their most recent expedition was over and Ross had wanted to compete, and Francis couldn’t think of a persuasive enough reason to stop him. He ought to have waited in the North with Blanky—but Francis didn’t have a wife whose company he could stay behind and enjoy, and he had decided he’d rather suffer through two weeks at Seaguard in James’ company than do naught but live off his brother’s hospitality for over a month.

Besides, James had been insistent that he come and watch, and Francis could not find it in himself to say no.

He rounds a corner to a new line of tents and scowls. At this rate, Neptune will be off into the Reach before he can find a trace of the over-sized lump of fur. Or, more likely, the mongrel has gotten distracted by some spit of roasting meat or another and couldn’t be bothered to turn back around.

Francis loves his dog, usually. When he doesn’t have to scour the whole of the Riverlands trying to find him.

He turns another corner and nearly shouts with triumph.

There’s the mangy mutt, all traces of northern ferocity gone as he butts his head into the hands of a kneeling man with a broad smile. Neptune, who had been bread as a guard dog and spent a lifetime on a ship, rolls over meekly onto his back and lolls his tongue out when the knight starts petting his stomach.

“Neptune!”

The dog rolls over, head alert, and runs to Francis; he nearly bowls over at the rush of animal into the sides of his legs. Neptune wags his tail for two beats and barks, sitting inelegantly on the ground. Francis frowns down at him.

“I suppose this delightful creature must be yours?”

The man is closer now, standing up. He is tall and instantly amiable, with dark eyes and darker hair, clothed in a plain but well cared for tunic. There was something familiar about his face—likely Francis had seen him years ago after following James to yet another of these blasted tourneys.

“Ah, yes,” Francis says, reaching down to settle a hand firmly on Neptune’s head. “I wouldn’t necessarily say delightful.”

“I would,” the man grins. It is effusive and charming enough that Francis almost grins back. “I have never felt more welcome at a tourney than I have today.”

“Ah. Well. Good.”

“Might I request an introduction?”

“This is Neptune,” Francis says without thinking. “And, er—I am Francis of House Crozier.”

“Oh,” the man exclaims, grin dropping to pleased surprise, “as in Francis Crozier, captain of the ship _Terror_?”

Francis blinks. “I—Yes.”

The man beams. Francis is slightly taken aback—usually people have heard of James and _Erebus_ , if they have heard of anything, not him and _Terror_. He was generally fine with not being the subject of gossip, but it was oddly gratifying to be recognized by such a man.

“I’ve heard all about your exploratory travels—ah, well, as all about them as hearsay and rumor allows.” He shifts on his feet, the fabric of his slight cloak swaying from side to side. “You know, I saw _Erebus_ in port once—though, alas, alone. Truly magnificent.” He smiles again, and gives a little bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

Francis works haltingly toward a reply. “And I as well, Ser…?”

“Ah, yes, of course! Hard to keep up with Westerosi gossip when you’re busy discovering the rest of the world, eh?” The man brings a hand to his chest. “Ser James, knight of the Riverlands.”

Francis nods. An odd choice of title, but who was he to judge. It was an odd man who knew the name and exploits of the fifth son of a minor northern house, and Francis was not going to judge that, when it had led to a refreshingly warm reception.

He clears his throat. “Are you competing, then, Ser James?”

“Yes, indeed.” He gestures behind him, where a shield emblazoned with a simple four-pointed star lay. Francis did not recognize the arms, but then he had always found maps more interesting than sigils. “And you?”

“No, no. I’m only here to spectate. My friend, Lord James Ross—”

“James!”

They both turn toward the call. Approaching them is none other than Lord Barrow’s youngest son—a man who Francis is not overly fond of. He tries to hide his grimace.

“Ah, James, I have found you at last,” Barrow cheerfully enthuses. Francis looks, side-eyed, down at Neptune. The dog has turned away from their new arrival—rightly so, Francis thinks.

“Hello my lord,” Ser James greets, inexplicably affable. “I was just speaking with—”

“Ah,” Barrow says disparagingly. “Francis Crozier. How… surprising.”

Ser James looks between them. “I see you two have met—”

“Yes,” Francis answers.

“At my father’s.” Barrow turns back away from Francis. “Now, James, I really must have a word with you—”

“By your leave, gentlemen,” Francis dryly bids, turning from the pair and whistling for Neptune to follow.

“My lord!”

Francis truns back; Ser James is looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face. Barrow is frowning.

“It was delightful meeting you,” Ser James says. “And Neptune. May we expect to see you at tonight’s feast?”

Francis just stares at him, then nods.

He’s only a few steps away when he hears Barrow say, “What are you doing, James, talking with _him_ of all people?”

Francis scowls and walks faster.

Thomas is not back when Francis returns, but Little is, so Francis sends him off after the squire with a grin. Edward nods and hurries off, but not before presenting Francis with a letter from Lady Sophia Cracroft.

Francis settles into a chair, Neptune laying at his feet, and opens it with anxious fingers. Sophia’s hand is as clear and neat as always, and the first half of what she has written is thoroughly enjoyable.

_Thank you for writing, Francis_ , she begins. _I am glad to hear you are safe on our native soil again._

_I wonder that there should be a matching expanse of frozen sea that is so similar to our own northern waters. They cannot be the same stretch, surely, for then would it not imply that one could reach the southern most stretches of Sothoryos by simply sailing far enough north? Impossible, and yet intriguing._

And then, like the dull cut of a knife he had known was coming, but still wished not to feel:

_Uncle has arranged my betrothal to Lord Wylde’s eldest son, Casper. ~~He will inherit after his father passes, and~~ He is a good and decent man, and I believe we could be quite happy together._

_I said yes, Francis. I thought it kindest to tell you myself._

 

Francis hates feasts.

This is not, technically, a hard and fast rule. In theory, he imagines he would quite enjoy a feast with selected attendance: his family, their families, James Ross and Thomas Blanky and—unlikely and bittersweet and yet still desired—Lady Sophia. Twelve siblings and their various get would furnish a decently sized feast, though not, perhaps, one as grand as this.

It would have been significantly less miserable, however.

Seaguard’s great hall is full of stinking, clamoring men and women vying to stock up other’s attention and envy and favor. Francis glowers at anyone who so much as shifts in his direction. He has already suffered through the eating part of the occasion, through being mostly ignored and left to his plate, through hearing James commended for their expeditions as if he were the only one involved, through a seemingly endless supply of _Ser James of the Riverlands_ ’ mindless stories and Barrow’s endlessly annoying interjections.

Francis has never particularly desired to be the center of attention, but when the clustered lords and ladies are still simpering and fluttering after the third multi-part saga of nonsense he’s more than a little perturbed.

The only balm of the night is Ross at his side—and yet that too is inevitably lost.

They are standing to the side of the hall in companionable silence, the stone a cool reprieve from the stifling warmth of bodies before them. Francis is scowling at the unnecessarily wide arc of Ser James’ gesturing hands across the room; he is about to point it out to James when the other man speaks.

“I’m going to ask for her hand at the end of this tourney.”

Francis looks at him. His face is fond and warm—Francis follows his gaze to see Lady Ann on the outskirts of Ser James’ circle, just turning her face away from them.

He turns back to James, who is watching him closely. _Not you too,_ he thinks.

“She’d be a fool to say no,” he says.

James smiles. “Thank you, Francis. We’ll be sure to name our fifth son in your honor.” Francis grins weakly and knocks his shoulder—but James sighs and looks away. “I expect—that is, Lord Coulman has made it clear that he won’t accept unless I vow to take no part in any expeditions. Or at least, not to go on them.”

The clamor around them fades away until Francis can only hear the buzzing in his ears. “Will you—agree?”

“Yes,” James nods. “It’s time I settle down and stop my uncle from running our home into the ground.”

Francis wills himself to take a breath. Across the room, Lady Ann—and all the ladies around her—has just laughed prettily at something Ser James has said.

“ _Erebus_ is yours, of course, to use how you see fit. I can keep ahold of her until you find a suitable replacement—Gore, maybe? Or Little, in a few years’ time.” Francis looks back at him just as James’ voice lowers, soft and giddy. “And I’d like you to come to the wedding, Francis.”

He swallows thickly. “Of course.”

James clasps a hand on his back. Francis looks up at him, feeling hollowed. “Aston has a port, Francis. This is not a goodbye.”

Francis tries to smile.

James slides his hand across to Francis’ other shoulder and pulls them together in a steadying embrace. Then he takes his leave, to let Francis process and no doubt ask Lady Ann to dance.

He—

Francis has not been complete oblivious to the possibility that this was coming. James would have had to leave _Erebus_ and _Terror_ to be Lord Ross at some point, he just—he had not expected it so soon. Had not _wanted_ to expect it so soon. He—He did not—

“Lord Francis!” He jolts at the interruption and finds himself face-to-face with, of all bloody people, Ser James. “Tell me, how fares your dog? Found his way into any other mischief?”

“No,” Francis says a little too late. “He’s fine.”

Ser James looks at him for a moment, then awkwardly reinforces his smile. “Ah! Good. I’m glad to hear it. Though I’m sure he could finagle his way out of anything. You know, when I was younger, I saw this dog that—”

“Did you beat him at jousting too?” Francis intercuts harshly.

“I—No, I only meant to tell you—” Ser James begins, but the last thread of Francis’ patience has snapped.

“Tell me _what_ , Ser James? Another boasting story of your average competence in something that doesn’t actually matter?” Francis sneers. His blood is pounding hot in his ears. “You’re of age for the last Blackfyre rebellion, tell me—did you spend the whole campaign lancing your enemies to the ground and crowning simpering ladies?”

“I—”

Francis rounds on him, temper raring. “What do you want, _Ser_? I’ve little patience or time for the pointless tourney stories of a man who no doubt earned his knighthood off his family name and a pile of gold. So either tell me why you’re here or love me alone.” He takes a pointed drink.

For the next few moments Ser James does nothing but stare at him. Francis stares back, one eyebrow raised in challenge. Ser James’ face twists—a slight furrowing of his brow, a flattening of his mouth—then he hardens, jaw set. Francis just wants him to go away.

When he speaks, Ser James’ tone is as smooth and inoffensive as water over a stone. It drips with the artificial pleasantry that Francis so hates to hear. “Apologies, my lord, for wasting your time. I’ll leave you to your celebrations.”

He wades off through the crush of people. Back to his admirers, no doubt, though the thought does not raise as much vitriol in Francis as it had before. The reality of what he has just said creeps slowly into his consciousness—but only enough for him to wonder whether he ought to regret it.

Ah, seven hells. Ser James will likely be trounced in the first round and then Francis will never have to look at his face again. He finishes his drink so he might leave this rollicking nightmare and wallow in his new-found loneliness in a manner befitting of the term.

 

Four days later and Francis is convinced the gods are laughing at him.

Ser James of the Riverlands, whatever that nonsense is supposed to mean, is not trounced in the first round. Instead, he calmly unseats a boy whose mistake marks that he should really still be a squire, and then progress through each subsequent bout with a flourish that is unfortunately justified by his obvious skill.

If Francis actually cared about jousting, he would be grudgingly impressed. But he doesn’t, so he isn’t.

He equally doesn’t care about the fact that Ser James had looked at him about halfway through the second day—had caught his eyes with an unreadable expression—and then promptly and studiously went about not doing it again.

It was inconsequential. If Francis felt and odd twist in his stomach it was only because he remembered his mother’s comportment lessons and felt guilty for having broken them.

Not that Ser James was much better, spending each feasting night monopolizing an increasingly large group of lords and ladies. No decent man would gather attention like a hoarding dragon and be so proud of it. Francis cannot deny the man is charming, and of a generally better countenance than most of the other lords of Westeros, but no doubt it is a charm born form the self-assurance of having never faced real adversity in his life.

James Ross is doing just as well as the knight, which means Francis—who cannot sit with his squire and guardsman, no matter how much he’d prefer their company—has spent the past four days watching a sport he doesn’t care for while surrounded by people he doesn’t like.

He is increasingly bored and annoyed.

He’s mentally composing a response to Blanky’s latest letter— _west, Francis, it’s too late in the season to go north and I’m tired of not knowing the right bloody niceties in Essos—_ when someone walks up next to him.

“Is this seat taken, my lord?”

Francis glances up. The man asking is young, with red hair and a decidedly southern accent. Simple enough clothes, though even he can tell they’re of high quality—some southern lordling, then, though one with enough taste to refrain from wearing his sigil like a brand.

That does mean Francis has no bloody clue who he is, though.

He shakes his head and the other man nods, sitting down. A few moments pass before he gestures to the field and asks, “Is there anyone you want to win?”

Francis presses his lip together. “James Ross—but I’ll put no dragons on it.” He’s not looking for a wager, even if he does want James to win. After a moment’s hesitation he grudgingly returns the query.

“If I was choosing, my brother.”

Francis follows the man’s gaze to the side of the field. There is Ser James, frowning at something, and in front of him—ah. Red hair and a silver trout.

He turns back to the man that must be Brynden Tully. “I’ve not seen Lord Hoster joust before, but I’m sure your faith is well placed.”

Tully barks a laugh. “Oh, Hoster’s a decent enough hand—perhaps insufferably so—but he’s not the one I meant.”

Francis frowns at him, confused.

Tully looks surprised. “Hm. I thought everyone south of the Wall knew. At least it seems that way.” He nods back in the same direction. “Behind Hoster. With the four-pointed star.”

Francis blinks. “Ser James—is a Tully?”

“By blood, at least.”

It is a damningly vague statement that makes the reality of Ser James’ parentage blatantly clear.

Even Francis, who had been terrible at remembering the house and lords and ladies of Westeros _before_ he started leaving the country for years at a time, knew that the current Lord Tully had only two sons. Apparently that was only partially true—Lord Tully had only two sons that bear his name.

And at least one that doesn’t is clearly older than Lord Hoster.

Well. Francis has done stupider things than tell off the almost-heir of a great house. Not many that come immediately to mind, but he’s sure it’s true.

He might’ve done crueler things, too, but that one’s even harder to prove.

“I had no idea,” he says after a too-long moment of silent staring.

“You are a rare man, my lord. Everyone else in Westeros is an incorrigible gossip,” Tully huffs bitterly.

Francis may not be a gossip, but he certainly has his other shortcomings. The most recent exhibition of which he will not being sharing with Tully, if the man is as fond as he seems of his—half-brother.

By mid-afternoon, after a few bouts in which Francis and Tully both agree that the competency of the competitors is an ill omen for the future of Westeros, the are only four men remaining: Hoster Tully, Yohn Royce, and the two Jameses.

The joust is truly interesting, now that only the best participants are left; there is a certain buzz of attention that Francis can feel rising around him.

The Jameses are up against each other first. Francis ought to feel grateful for it—either Ross will lose and he can stop watching, or Ser James will lose and he can stop having to look at him. And feeling the remorse that sparks.

They line up on opposite ends of the field, Ross sigil facing simple star. Then they charge.

The first tilt ends with the twin clangs of blunted lances hitting armor. Neither lance is broken nor rider unhorsed, so they circle around and begin again.

Francis holds his breath, though he’s not sure why.

Again, two clangs—with the added snap of splintering wood. The riders slow and it becomes clear that each has broken off the tip of their lance.

They circle around again, pausing for the necessary task of being handed new lances. Ross takes his promptly, shifting it back and forth into a comfortable hold in a gesture Francis has seen dozens of time over the course of their friendship.

Ser James takes a little longer. His squire holds the lance ready, but he does not immediately take it. Instead he sits, helmet turning ever so slightly toward the stands. Francis has tried to turn his head in full armor before; a slight turn is the closet one can get to staring sideways. Then Ser James shifts back and takes up his lance.

Beside Francis, Lord Brynden sighs.

They charge, one last time.

Ser James’ lance slides off the edge of Ross’ armor, not even a true hit. James shatters his lance.

Francis claps for James’ win along with everyone else, but he’s frowning while he does it.

Ser James had hit the side of James’ armor—a spot any experienced knight should have known would push the lance off to a barely glancing blow. Ser James had won the first round due to his opponent making the same mistake; and yet he had not changed the angle. It doesn’t sit right on a man who has already exhibited a higher amount of skill.

It is not until the next bout that Francis understands.

“Oh,” he cannot help but quietly exclaim as Hoster Tully and Yohn Royce gallop toward each other. Lord Brynden looks over. “It was intentional.”

“He might’ve lost to your friend anyway,” Tully says, but they both know that isn’t the point.

Tully shakes his head when Yohn Royce unseats his brother then laughs when Ross does the same to Royce. “Perhaps you should’ve put gold on it,” he says to Francis, who can only nod mechanically. “You know, Ross and I are some kind of cousins on my mother’s side. I suppose I can settle for him.”

James is named champion and handed a crown of roses. He strides over to present it to Lady Ann, Lord Coulman smiling brightly beside her. Francis ought to feel happy for them, had expected to feel bitter, but—but instead of watching them he turns his head to the sidelines and catches Ser James frowning puzzledly in his direction.

Next to him, Brynden Tully waves.

 

He finds Ser James in a small balcony off the great hall, overlooking the Sunset Sea below them. The man is a tall figure, leaning against the short wall, back turned toward the doorway, seemingly lost in thought.

Behind them are a hundred feasting nobles, flocking around James Ross and his new betrothed, circling prospects for alliances, flittering from gossip to gossip, a dull roar of nothing Francis cares about.

He steps forward, the wall behind him dampening the noise until he can hear the soft crashing of the waves below. The balcony is small enough that Ser James cannot have missed Francis’ presence, but he does not turn around.

Perhaps he is trying to ignore him.

Francis wishes he had thought to bring something. Some kind of peace offering, to show he means no harm or ill will. Something to persuade Ser James to look at him long enough for an apology.

He wishes he had a drink.

Francis folds his empty hands together and clears his throat. “I believe I owe you an apology.”

Ser James jerks toward him, his barest movement impossible to ignore. Francis forces himself to look up at his face.

“You— _what_?”

Francis flinches. “I treated you unfathomably ill—well, unfathomable to anyone who has never met me, I’m afraid I—” he shuts his mouth before any more blathering can spew forth. “What I mean is I am sorry.”

Ser James stares at him with wide eyes. “There is no need to apologize, my lord.”

Francis shakes his head. “I have treated you as no decent man should. That is need enough.”

“I—Thank you, my lord, but—”

“Francis,” he interrupts. “My name is Francis.”

For a moment Ser James just looks at him, eyes flickering over Francis’ face. Then he smiles, soft and small, and says, “Thank you, Francis.”

He thinks he would like to hear his name in that voice more often. It sounds—soft. Warm.

Then Ser James’ smile turns rueful, and he drops his gaze from Francis’ face. “But you weren’t exactly wrong.”

Francis frowns and opens his mouth to protest, but Ser James shakes his head. He heaves a great sigh and starts to speak.

“I’m not a true knight. Not really. I didn’t earn my knighthood through some act of heroism or protecting the innocent or anything decent like that.” He turns back to the balcony’s low wall, tightening his hands on the edge. “I settled a matter that would have brought scandal to House Barrow. That is how I know—” He cuts himself off. “Well. His father thought mine would consider my knighting a favor to be repaid, and so I was Ser James of—of nowhere, really.” He smiles wryly, pained and clearly self-deprecating. Francis cannot look away from his face. “And now the rebellion is over and the only thing nameless knights are useful for is entertainment.”

Francis is at a loss. He turns to lean back against the wall, shoulder brushing against James’. “I don’t think it matters how you get a knighthood,” he starts slowly,” just… what you do with it.”

James inhales sharply. Francis winces. “I—” he starts again, worry curdling in his gut. “What would you do, then? If you could do anything?”

James shifts next to him, his upper arm pressing against Francis’ with a solid weight. Francis can smell salt on the breeze blowing in from the sea.

“I had a friend who went north of the Wall,” James starts. Francis turns his head to listen; he can just make out the moon-lit outline of James’ profile from the corner of his eye. “Far north. He had just been named a maester. He’s an endlessly curious man, you see, and he’s always wanted to learn everything there is to know.” James sounds wistful. When he shrugs, Francis can feel it. “I don’t know that I’d pick north—I suspect it’s a touch cold for my southern blood—but I… I’d like to see something that isn’t Westeros. Go somewhere where houses and blood and legacies don’t matter.”

In a week, this tourney will be over. In a week, Ross will relinquish _Erebus_ and leave for Aston with Lady Ann. In a week, Francis and Edward and Thomas will follow to watch him wed and say some kind of goodbye.

Tomorrow the melee will begin, and Francis would like some company for it.

“West,” he says, then clears his throat and clarifies. “We’re going west, next. Our—my crew.” He squeezes his hands together in front of him. “Come with m—us. We’re always in need of good men.”

James turns sideways, catching Francis' gaze. “I don’t know a thing about sailing.”

“I’m sure you’re a quick study,” Francis says, a hopeful smile tugging at his mouth. “Of course I understand if you don’t—”

“No!” James interrupts, grabbing Francis’ forearms with his hands. “No, I mean—yes. Yes.” He smiles; Francis feels something inside of him unfurl in warmth. “I believe I would like that very much.”

Francis shifts his arms in James’ grip until they’re both clutching at each other’s wrists. He squeezes, then lets go. They settle next to each other on the wall, the muffled sounds of celebration floating into the comfortable silence between them.

 

Three weeks later, James Ross marries Ann Coulman in Aston’s godswood. He is handsome and brave and she is beautiful and kind and the trees are waving in a wind that feels like the gods are smiling down on them. It is a union that will bring prosperity and strength to both their houses.

Francis is, at the barest heart of it all, happy for them both.

He stands in the second row of people, just behind the scattered cousins of the Ross family, Brynden Tully among them. On his left is the empty space Lady Ann walked down to greet her future; on his right is James.

Francis does not hate weddings. Not this one.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> James is a Tully because
> 
>   1. Tobias Mendez is Edmure, obv
>   2. I love Brynden Tully and I have no shame
>   3. (Also Clive Russell plays Brynden and Sir John Ross and I just… The stars aligned, ok?)
> 

> 
> I married Sophia off for thematic reasons and I’m mega sorry about that but uh, in my “defense” that’s what we do with women in GOT/ASOIAF so. Yeesh.
> 
> I'm [here](https://glass-es-say.tumblr.com/) if you want to discuss the goodest boy (Neptune. I'm talking about Neptune)


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